Steakhouse expectations

The evenings offerings were ordered with a side of sizzle, he held my hand across the heavy table.

Glancing away to the anticipated intrusion approaching, we yield our grasp to the flourish of the feast.

The scent moves through my nostrils and descends into the depths of my belly.

I feel the familiar pang of a deeply specific hunger temporarily forgotten.

He politely offers me a bite, his character remains practically unassailable.

My mind echoing the mantra from heartbreaks past, they are all nice in the beginning.

I seductively part my lips to accommodate the seared and seasoned morsel.

He gingerly offers the meat into my mouth from his own fork.

It hits my tongue in a burst of juicy flavor, the punch of garlic and the hint of butter rounding it all out.

The pink center, warm and tender, salaciously disintegrates under the weight of mastication.

It rolls and melts with my tongue and slides down my throat with a satisfying swallow.

Wondering if he feels the same uncertain thought, as I raise the whiskey glass to my lips.

Maybe this one is different, this one feels different.